He reached for my arm, curling his hand around my bicep. "Gus."
I didn't step back this time. I let him touch me and I let myself burn under that touch. "May I ask how you came to be here, in West Berkeley,Gus? This is a rather great distance from the campus and your living quarters."
His fingers slipped up the inside of my arm as he gazed at me, a curious, not altogether pleased grin pulling at his lips. "Slater Somethingoranother recommended it. The social media guy, the one who takes all the fake candid photos. He insisted I get out of Silicon Valley and he hooked me up with a list of local spots." His shoulders lifted and the gesture pushed the pad of his thumb into my soft tissue. Schooling my expression took serious work when I wanted to moan into his touch. "This is the only one I hadn't tried yet."
"Mr. Wend. Smart man, good taste." I gestured toward the counter when a clerk called for the next customer. His hand fell away. "Now, if you'll excuse me."
I wasn't excused for long. The neighboring clerk blindly beckoned for a customer and Mr. Guillmand stepped up beside me. We ordered separately but I couldn't stop myself from stealing glances at his profile. The way he flattened his palms on the counter drew my attention to the leather cuff on his left wrist. It looked worn, scarred but soft. I wanted to touch it, to run my fingertips over the raw edge and follow it along the topography of his wrist.
Ugh, no. Why, Neera, why?
I needed to recharge, not gain intimate knowledge of his body. I wanted an illogical smorgasbord of comfort food that would make my mother simultaneously cringe and roll her eyes: biryani, dahi puri, and uttapam, not an arrogant pain in my ass.
And yet I studied the sculptor's big, capable hands and asked, "Would you care to join me, Mr. Guillmand?"
A smug grin split his face, brightened his dark eyes. "I thought you'd never ask."
It was common courtesy. He was a visitor and a new member of the team, and it was common courtesy to share a meal with him given these circumstances. I was being a professional. That was all.
We stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting for our meals. We didn't speak, didn't touch. To my credit, I didn't retrieve my phone and fall down a fake-busy hole. No, I kept Mr. Guillmand in my peripheral vision as I gazed at the pickup window. It was better like this. I didn't hide, didn't prevaricate. I stared down tension until it cooled…or boiled over.
Our order numbers were called one after another. When I reached for my tray, Mr. Guillmand held up a hand, blocking me. "I've got this. You lead the way and I'll follow."
I spent no time considering the meaning behind his words even though I was certain I'd find plenty, instead occupying myself with picking my way through the eatery. Two seats opened up on the end of a long communal table and I quickened my pace to get there before anyone else.
I heard his coarse laugh over my shoulder as I hung my bag on the back of the chair. "Amused, Mr. Guillmand?"
He set our trays on the table. "Impressed. You're a vulture."
I brushed my hands together, glanced at the people seated nearby, sniffed. "What a vivid comparison."
"Like I said"—he passed behind me, his hand ghosting over my lower back, the pressure just enough to send my belly flipping—"impressed."
I sat, busied myself with unfolding my paper napkin and spreading it over my lap. My companion surveyed the diners around us, his gaze settling on the quartet of junior associates beside us from the venture capital firm Koos Blacke. They'd kept up their conversation about this fall's bonito run but made no attempt to hide their eavesdropping.
That was how I knew they were junior associates. Full associates and partners had perfected the art of invisible information gathering. Not that this meal offered information worth gathering, even for the Valley's virulent rumor mill.
"It's curious that we bumped into each other here," Gus commented.
"If you're implying anything other than happenstance, I'd suggest you reconsider."
"It wouldn't be the first time you've come looking for me today," he replied.
"That wasn't my intent this evening." I stared at him, my expression even. "How are you finding the Bay Area, Mr. Guillmand?"
He dropped his forearms on the table, hung his head, groaned. "You can't call me that."
My brows arched up. "And why not?"
His entire body sighed. Shoulders, arms, lips, chest. It moved like a skipped stone rippling over a pond. "My father is Mr. Guillmand." He focused on organizing the small plates on his tray. "I can't hear that name without my stomach dropping to my toes and turning around to figure out how the hell he's here when he's supposed to be back home in Morumbi."
"Is your relationship with him difficult?"
Gus shook his head. "Not difficult. Different."
"I would imagine being descended from the French monarchy does that to a bloodline."
He hit me with a flat stare. "So, you've heard about that."
